


In Breathing Distance

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst and Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono comes when he is called.Set in 1989, before Lovetown kicked off.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Jana, again, because Jana deserves everything in the world.
> 
> ...I am sorry for the angst. I am not sorry for the everything else that happens.

She doesn’t even ask, just hands over the keys, and although her demeanor is cheery enough Edge can see right through it. 

It’s getting well on in the day and no doubt she’s had enough, wants to put her feet up away from it all, but work is work, customers come first, and she has enough fire left in her to fake the gladness - glad to see him, glad to see the back of him. He’s not sure if she recognizes him, if she would even care either way, and he doesn’t keep her long. “If you need anything else,” she starts with a smile stretched thin, and he cuts her off then with a grin that he almost believes.

“I think I’m all set, but if I have any troubles, I’ll let you know.”

“Be sure that you do. My door is always open.” She offers him a wave, her gaze drifting past his shoulder. It’s late.

“Thank you, I appreciate the help.” He does. He really does. “Have a good evening.”

“Goodnight,” she calls after him. “Just let me know if you need anything!”

“Goodnight!” He’s out the door before she can say another word, hand raised, out into the cool night air. He can barely make out a single star, and still the clouds won’t stop rolling in, but in the distance he can see the city lights. He’s not that far. He’s still in breathing distance.

He muddles on though until he comes to his room, the key taking an effort to turn, and Edge has half a mind to turn back toward the office and disturb her, to tell her, “I can fix that for you.” Because he can. He could. There are a lot of things he could do. A lot of little distractions he could find to pass the time.

The room is small, the walls are green, and it’s all that he expected. The bed looks sturdy enough, though, and the phone dials out, and there is little else he needs in life. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Bono answers on the sixth ring, slightly out of breath, and Edge doesn’t want to know why. “Can you meet me?” he asks.

“You know, most people open with ‘hello’, Edge, in case you were-” 

“Can you?”

Bono pauses briefly, and Edge can picture his expression through the phone. “Now?” he asks, though Edge knows well enough that Bono isn’t looking for an answer, just more time to think. “You want me to meet you?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Bono huffs out a laugh. “Well, yeah, I guess you did.” He falls quiet again, breath harshing against the line as he thinks it through. It’s a mistake, Edge is sure of it now, twisting the cord around his finger as he waits. He knows what Bono is thinking, even if he’s not sure himself. A mistake, yes, but one he cannot quite bring himself to take back. “Uhm. Yeah, I’m free now,” Bono says, though he doesn’t sound it. “Where are you exactly, Edge? You’re not home, are you.”

The tip of his finger is blushing red, white below the cord, and Edge twists a little tighter as he says, “No. No, I’m not home.” 

“Right.”

“I’m in room 12.”

Another pause. “Room 12  _ where _ , Edge?”

It takes him a moment to remember, but he does, rattling off the name as well as the area, as Bono has never been one for directions. “It shouldn’t take long to get here,” he adds, more hopeful than confident, “if you leave soon. It’s probably best you do, those clouds look like they have a bit of bite in them. Don’t want to get caught in that.”

“No,” Bono says, his voice so soft Edge barely hears it. “Edge -”

“So I’ll see you soon, then?”

The question hangs in the air for a time, and when Bono sighs it’s not relief Edge feels, or trepidation, it’s something else entirely; something alien that sits low in his belly. “Yeah,” says Bono, “I’ll see you-”

Edge hangs up the phone, and regrets it immediately. He considers dialing back, though he knows it’s not a logical move, and for a moment he just sits there, looking at the phone until his attention is drawn to the burn of his fingertip. Slowly he unravels the phone cord, though it takes a while for his finger to come back to him fully.

It’s not yet raining outside, but Edge knows it’s coming. 

From the backseat of his car he grabs his backpack, and, after careful consideration, his guitar case also. It’s why he’s here, after all. Isn’t it? Surely. Yes. And it’s why Bono is on his way. Just to listen. Listen and learn, and help. Help him with what he needs. It’s all Edge is after. All he needs.

He washes his face in the bathroom, and considers taking a shower before settling on a quick brush of the teeth. It will do. It will have to do. 

In the bedroom, he finds himself seeking out the bible that is a fixture in all good hotel rooms, a constant in his life. It doesn’t take him long to locate, and in the drawer alongside it he places his keys and wallet. Before he shuts it all away he just has to touch the book, run his finger along the deep crease in the spine. It’s hard to tell how long this particular bible has been in this particular drawer, but from the condition of the cover, the folds of the pages, Edge can tell it has been a comfort to those who came before him. He shuts it away, along with his things.

Again he reaches for the phone, and makes it halfway through dialing before hanging up. It’s too soon to talk, he’s sure. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they will. Sit down and talk it over, make it up and make it through. 

The rain reaches him before Bono does, starting off slowly, big drops that fall heavy against the roof, before coming down in earnest, a sheet falling downward and then crossways, catching against the window and blurring his view. And usually Edge might welcome the rain gladly, but tonight the sight of it leaves him at first feeling a little anxious, and then, when the clock ticks over and he’s still alone, full of dread. 

It’s so easy to picture a car crumpled in a ditch somewhere, flipped over with its headlights fading, just far enough away from the road where it can’t be seen. And it’s so easy to let his mind run rampant, even as he tries to push it all away, think happier thoughts, consider what he just might say when Bono finally appears. It’s hard to concentrate, though, as he looks out at the downpour, and Edge knows, if anything were to actually go wrong, it would be his fault.

His heart leaps in his chest when the knock comes, and though he is soaked through, Bono still arrives in one piece.  _ He must have an angel on either shoulder, guiding him through the dangers of life,  _ Gavin had once said,  _ the fucking dangers he throws himself into _ , and Edge had agreed with him at the time, and agrees with it now, even if the smile on Bono’s face is less than angelic.

“Well,” Bono says, flicking water from his face with his free hand, and his voice is near drowned out by the onslaught behind him,  “I got caught in it, and then some.”

“Christ.” Edge can only shake his head. “I was starting to think-”

“What, you don’t think I can handle a little rain?” Bono laughs as he steps inside. He’s dripping wet, his hair limp, trailing down past his shoulders in soggy tangles. His shoes squelch as he steps into the room, but he doesn’t seem bothered.  “I’ve made it this far in life, haven’t I?”

The rain is reduced to white noise with the closing of the door, a steady rhythm against the roof that reminds Edge of a night lit only by candlelight. He wonders if Bono remembers. “You look like a drowned rat.” 

It’s striking to think how alone they actually are, hidden away from the world, location unknown. He’s booked in under a fake name, and he assumes there is a chance, a very likely chance given the way Bono smiled at him as he stepped inside, that Ali is none the wiser. They are off the grid, able to get away with anything, for at least a day, maybe more, if that’s what they want. A couple of days before they are spotted by a stranger, or before someone starts to wonder. A couple of someones, perhaps, who knows how it might play out, but at least they have some time. If that is truly what they want. “Let me get you a towel.”

Bono just nods, his eyes following until Edge slips from view. “I bought some things,” he says. “I didn’t know - I wasn’t sure what I might need, Edge.”

He’s setting his bag down by the bed when Edge comes back from the bathroom with a towel in each hand: one for his hair, one for otherwise. Bono takes them both with a smile, his gaze lingering once more. Edge recognizes that smile. Bono thinks he is here for something in particular. He thinks he is here for sex.

Edge isn’t quite sure he has it in himself to prove Bono wrong. He’s not entirely sure he understands himself enough right now to try. “What sort of things?”

Bono shrugs as he towels at his hair. “Just some things, this and that.” The bag seems large enough to hold more than ‘this and that’, and Edge stares at it for longer than he should. Vividly, he’s aware of the rain on the roof. It’s slowing down now, heading towards a trickle, as though it was just waiting to see if Bono could make it on through. “Some clothes.”

“Clothes?”

Bono shrugs again, smiling still. “I wasn’t sure what I might need.” He places both towels on the bed before drawing his shirt up and over his head, letting it fall to the floor before stepping out of his shoes, one by one. Watching, Edge starts to laugh. “What? What’s funny?” Edge just shakes his head, pressing his hand against his cheek. He doesn’t know why he’s laughing really, just that it’s building up, coming deep from his diaphragm in a way that’s bound to eventually ache. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stop, and he’s not sure if he wants to. “ _ Edddggee _ .” 

There’s that look on Bono’s face that says he’s annoyed, but the smile is hanging about, threatening to turn into something bigger, something uncontrollable, and it plays on his face as he watches Edge, far too patient for a man wanting to be taken seriously. His hair is still dripping a little at the ends, tracking slowly down his skin, catching in his chest hair. “I was going to suggest maybe we have a drink,” Bono says, “but it looks as though you’ve already beaten me to the minibar.”

Slowly, Edge starts to sober. “There isn’t a minibar.” He gestures broadly around the room. “This is about as basic as it comes, Bono.”

Bono’s lip quirks, his eyes raking up and down. “Well, it’s not all basic.” When Edge doesn’t respond, he just picks up the unused towel and starts at his hair once more. “Have you eaten?”

“I - yeah.” Edge rubs at the back of his neck, turning away. “Yes. Yeah, yeah. Uh, have you? Did you want-”

“Edge.” It takes him a moment, and when he does glance back he finds Bono looking at him, not in the way he wants, not in the way he planned, or in the way he'd hoped when he had made the call. No, it is a little bit sadder, a little bit wiser, something close to pity. It’s not a look Edge really knows. He reaches for his guitar, and Bono’s face falls slightly. “Oh,” he says, “you been workin’ on something?”

“Yeah,” says Edge, because he has to say  _ something _ , “Well . . . I thought I was, but I’m just,” he shrugs uselessly, letting out a little laugh, “I can’t quite get there. I can’t get it to where I want it to be, so.” Another shrug, and briefly Edge finds himself drifting towards distraction, searching for something else to focus his mind on, but it seems even the rain has left them. “I guess I’m stuck. Maybe - I think I need a second opinion.”

Bono is nodding, towel dabbing at his chest now, though he still has that look in his eye. “Sure,” he says, “That’s why I’m here. Right?”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They are a couple of idiots, Edge knows, but he’s also sure he’s the worse of the two. He perches himself on the side of the bed and waits for Bono to join him, bare-chested and seeping water through the covers, before deciding to come up with any sort of plan. 

There are songs in his head, of course, or rather snippets of some, snatches of half melodies, ideas that are yet to be fully realized. Really, there is nothing there that might convince Bono that he truly is needed, but still Edge tries, fumbling through something that he can barely replicate on the second go, despite how easy the melody should be for him. He’s in trouble and they both know it, but Bono, for his part, just sits quietly at his side, watching his hands at first and then his face, content to just wait for something to give. It feels familiar and new, a different sort for them even as he can hear himself telling Bono:  _ this needs to stop. _

“Edge,” Bono says only when the guitar is set aside, “why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” Edge admits, and it’s a half truth. “I’m not even sure why you’re here.”

“I came because you called.”

Edge just rolls his eyes. “Well, yes, but-”

“Because you asked me to come,” Bono cuts in gently. “Because . . . just because you asked me to.” It seems so simple when put in such a way, and Edge can’t help but shake his head. “And you didn’t sound yourself, so. I mean, how could I say no? I couldn’t. I probably should have, because Edge, there is a chance I may have killed someone on the way over.” For a moment he just watches Edge laugh, a smile on his face before he turns serious. “What’s going on? You didn’t - Did something happen?” His hand still feels damp when it lands on Edge’s arm. “Edge.”

“I don’t know,” Edge says. “I think I just, I fucked up. I think. I don’t know.” He does, has some idea, but he’s not going to tell Bono that. A mistake, yes, but that’s why he called. He’s almost sure. 

“Maybe you should-”

“Tomorrow.”

Bono looks at him as he processes the word, rolling it around in his brain like it's alien to him, and then he is up off of the bed, three steps forward and two steps back, turning around to loom over Edge as much as Bono can loom, and even still Edge can only look to him as a comfort. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, and it’s not a question, not an accusation, it just is what it is. “Good, that’s good, Edge.”

Edge had thought the same on the way over, and in the time since, but when Bono smiles down at him, he doubts he’s going to make it on through without fucking it all up again. And he’s not even sure what he did, earlier that day, and maybe it was nothing he did, and maybe that was the problem, but he knows now, sure as anything, exactly how he’s going to ruin things this time around. “Shit,” he says simply, and Bono’s smile turns hesitant, a little unsure of himself now, even as he steps in closer, waiting for Edge to lean into him before bringing his arms up and around. “Bono, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” he insists, even as his hands start to drag downward from the dip of Bono’s back, until he’s past the belt and handling damp denim, feeling the shudder when he turns his face inward. He mumbles into Bono’s stomach, “I think I’ve forgotten how to be a good husband.”

Bono doesn’t answer. A wise move, Edge thinks, as well as a dangerous one, and when Bono kisses his head he’s not sure if it’s pity or comfort, but he decides to look past it all and take it for something else entirely, something darker, dangerous, and that’s when Edge is certain they’re making a mistake. “Are we doing this?” he asks, and Bono doesn’t reply. “Bono, are we?”

He lets Bono take over. It’s for the best, he knows, and the way Bono kisses him is familiar yet new, an echo from the past, and he had been so close to forgetting, to leaving it all behind. 

But there is something different now that he can’t quite figure out, and he’s not sure if it’s him or Bono that is leading him astray. He recognizes, though, the feel of the hand that lingers against his neck before trailing down to play with his collar, his buttons ( _ sit up. Edge . . . Edge _ ) and he clutches tightly and breathes in the cologne that is fading fast, wondering if they can make it through and then knowing it, just  _ knowing _ , but it isn’t until they are skin to skin, damp hair sweeping against his chest, that Edge finds it in himself to truly let go. He pulls Bono closer, then pushes him down, closing his eyes to the brush of lips at his hipbone, the hand skimming across the delicate skin of his inner thigh and the mouth that follows. And he laughs when Bono does, eyes open now as he cranes his head to catch them both in the midst of rediscovery. He murmurs, “God,” and Bono reaches out a hand but doesn’t look up. 

It feels like a loss, and although Edge is glad for it all, it seems he still cannot help himself, and when he says Bono’s name he receives the look he wants, the one he’s missed as much as he told himself, again and again, that it was best left in the past. It causes his breath to catch in his chest, even as the laughter builds just below the surface, threatening to turn into something else entirely, and it’s a sob that he just cannot hide.

Again he says Bono’s name, because he can, because he’s been allowed it. The smile he receives is bright and brief, disappearing with the dip of Bono’s head, and his hair becomes a hindrance and a distraction - something for Edge to touch and to feel, drawing his focus from the drag of a hand and the mouth that follows. It’s a dry heat that turns wet, that makes his toes curl, and it tugs at his chest and drags from him a strangled cry that turns into a curse.

And then it’s gone, and they’re skin against skin with fingertips digging into his jaw, pulling his attention back, right back to where it is needed. It’s a smile Edge knows, one he remembers, one that makes him burn deep inside, and when Bono kisses him again he’s ready for it, his hand catching in a tangle of hair, his breath stopstarting at the first curl of tongue against his own, and he’s not sorry when his teeth nip so roughly that it has to have hurt. Just a little. Just enough for the breath to huff from Bono’s nose, for him to draw back, eyes serious, and look at Edge for a strange few seconds, leaving him feeling as though he is under the microscope; a puzzle needing to be solved. 

He’s not sure how to react, so he doesn’t, just grips at Bono’s thighs and allows himself to be looked at, until whatever it is might just be found. His heart is racing, and there is a moment when he thinks it might be over. Bono’s voice is quiet, thoughtful as he says, “You can tell me to stop,” with that look in his eye. He’s not buying what he’s selling. “I’ll understand, Edge, I will.”

It’s the right thing to say, but Edge barely hears it. He just shakes his head and draws Bono closer, kissing him softly, and then deeply, letting out the saddest of sounds when it’s all over far too soon. Again Bono stops to look at him, and Edge can barely stand it. He wants to say something, but it’s only Bono’s name that comes out. 

It’s enough, it seems, as Bono’s expression softens, and then he is gone, slipping from the bed and stuttering, “Just - wait,” when Edge catches his arm. He's laughing as he pulls away, throwing a quick glance back before reaching for the bag he came with. “I thought I might . . .” he trails off, laughing more to himself this time as he paws through the bag, searching for and coming up with the goods. “I wasn’t sure, but I had an idea, Edge. I mean-”

“What?” It comes out petulant, and when Bono returns to the bed his eyes are shining bright and focused, reminding Edge of a particular neon sign that he cannot quite place but he adores it nonetheless, and the sight leaves him lost for words as he grips the thighs straddling him like they’re the only thing keeping him afloat. It’s not enough, and he can’t help but drift for a while, caught among the red light that burns against his eyelids as his nerves misfire and leave him hyper aware to every touch, every taste, overstimulated and dissociating from it all. And when he finds his way back he is inside of Bono, fingers digging in deep, clutching at sharp hipbones, flat on his back and useless, just completely fucking useless to the world. To think, he had considered them done -  _ we can’t keep doing this _ \- that this is what he’s been missing, and, yes, it is a mistake ( _ Edge . . . Edge _ ) it’s the worst of its kind, but he can’t think of anything but, not yet. Not now.

He watches Bono move, awestruck as he listens to the breathy little gasps that fill the room, that give way to drawn out moans, leaving him with a feeling so desperate and lost that he has to reach out a hand to catch himself. The flat of Bono’s stomach twitches against his palm, tenses, rolls with his hips, and it’s an effort to drag his hand away, to bring it down through wiry hair to grasp at Bono's cock, but it’s worth it for the sound he makes, the expression on his face. It’s worth it all, and Edge just can’t bring himself to look away, knows he would be mad to do so, and he’s looking, dead on and gasping, when Bono comes back to him from his own little world. Their eyes lock, lingering even as he leans in, coming within breathing distance to kiss Edge’s mouth, his cheek, brushing against the prickle of his jaw, and there is a smile on Bono’s face as he turns his head and whispers, as he says those words, precisely the words that Edge needs to hear.

 


End file.
